


Encounters With the Enemy

by legoline



Category: NCIS, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legoline/pseuds/legoline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They really thought they were done with being arrested at crime scenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Encounters With the Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the Supernatural episode _What Is And What Should Never Be._ Written for Roadie who requested a SPN/NCIS crossover for her birthday. Massive thanks and hugs go out to my partner in crime, Ewanspotter, who helped with plotting and did the first round of beta for story flow and character voices

“I like houses better,” Dean said in between two short gasps. He took another step forward and lifted his right foot with a disgusted frown on his face. His boots and a good part of his jeans were covered in brown, stinking mud. “They’re easier to get to. You know, with the roads and everything.”

He turned around and spotted Sam fighting his way through the field behind him. It’d been raining for a week, and the ground was soaked with water. Every time Dean placed his foot down, it sunk in a few inches and pulling it out again was more sweat-driving than training rounds with Dad ever had been. Dean stopped, wiped some moisture from his brow and waited until Sam had caught up with him.

The sight of Sam, swaying on his stilts—Dean had given up thinking of them as legs a while ago—was almost worth the hassle. Almost.

When Sam had reached him, he grunted something that Dean assumed was an agreement. His face was twisted into that unhappy-smiley expression that usually made Dean wonder whether Sam was related to Jim Carrey. He tended to grin at Sam when he put on that face; Dean just couldn’t help it. It was too funny. Today, though, Dean was frustrated and annoyed enough that he shrugged Sam’s smiley face off, and nodded.

“Yeah.”

Dean brought his hand up to his forehead to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun. In the distance, yellow tape fluttered in the breeze.

“Looks like the place,” he said, indicating “the place” with his hand. An open field in the middle of nowhere spread before them, yellow grass that reached their knees. In the distance, a line of trees seamed the area, brushing against the sky.

“Let’s get this over and done with,” Sam replied. He sounded like he was trying his best to keep his temper.

“Sure thing, sunshine.”

They marched on towards the yellow crime scene tape. By the time they’d reached it, Dean was desperately trying not to pant too loudly, because that would have been really embarrassing, and as he turned around he saw that Sam’s face had adapted a lovely red shade of red. His hair was damp and framing his face. Dean smiled, and Sam shot him a look that said _one word and I’ll kill you._

Dean grabbed the yellow tape, and focused back on the crime scene before him. There wasn’t much. Actually, there wasn’t anything. The tape surrounded a site about as large as a football field, even though the police reports Sam had hacked into said that the body had been found near the oak tree right in the middle of the crime scene, and that there’d been no signs of struggle and basically no evidence. Poor bastard had been strangled to death, but there’d been absolutely no evidence left by the murderer except for the body. They’d known right then they’d hit the jackpot.

Even more so when they heard that the place had the stories of being haunted by the spirit of a little girl that had been abducted, abused and strangled to death in the early 50’s. An unhealthy percentage of the men that went to the site, for whatever reason, ended up strangled. Last victim had been a Marine, found dead just two days ago.

Dean held the tape up and ducked, then sneaked past it. Sam followed him.

They walked the short distance to the tree, the afternoon hung low in the sky, casting long shadows. It’d be dark soon.

Dean lifted the shotgun up a little and scratched the back of his head with the barrel. Before him, the grass was flat, like it had bowed under a great weight. It was the only sign that there’d been a body, everything else was just like it was supposed to be.

He couldn’t spot any blood, or pattern in the grass. The oak tree was alive and thriving, and around them, birds were chirping merrily. No wonder the cops couldn’t make heads or tails of the murder. Spirits seldom left much physical evidence, and even for a supernatural occurrence there was hardly anything to go on this time.

Dean heard Sam switching the EMF meter on. It didn’t read anything unusual, kept quiet and busy, buzzing in the afternoon sun, but Dean asked Sam anyway. Sam liked this shit, talking about facts and keeping Dean up-to-date, even when Dean was standing right next to Sam and heard the EMF meter just as well as Sam did.

“Anything?”

Sam shook his head. “Nothing. But if she just comes out at night…”

“Yeah.” Dean sighed. The sun was warm on his face, and after almost two weeks of rain, that felt like heaven. “I hate the office hours in spirit world. Fuckin’ messes with my beauty sleep. Anyway, nothing we can do about it. We should come back later then.”

Sam chuckled and that made Dean smile, until they heard branches rustle and both Dean and Sam stopped frozen. A voice said, “Wanna bet?” and as they turned around, they saw two people dressed in black looking suspiciously like Feds, pointing their guns at them.

 _Great_ , Dean thought, slowly lowering the shotgun to the ground. _Just great_.

***

Tony DiNozzo had decided that he kinda liked the shorter of the two guys.

They claimed that they were brothers, and judging by the treatment the taller one received by the shorter one, Tony didn’t really doubt it. The shorter one was a smart-ass who seemed to draw from an endless supply of snarky remarks, comebacks and knowledge of movies. Usually, Tony would just have told him to shut up or showed the guy that he knew some pretty good comebacks himself.

But somehow he liked the admittedly funny way the shorter one kept teasing the tall one, whose face was twisted into a grumpy frown which made him look like the world’s biggest sulking child. Occasionally the shorter one addressed the front seats, but Tony didn’t answer and focused on the road. Ziva however did reply a couple of times, and as soon as the shorter one found out that Ziva was someone you should better not mess with—he took hints pretty well, you had to grant him that—the commenting reduced immediately, though it didn’t fully stop.

They were ghost hunters, the taller one had explained to them. They’d heard about the murder and knowing the site was supposed to be haunted, they’d wanted to check it out. Walking into a crime scene probably hadn’t been the smartest idea, the tall one had offered with an apologetic shrug and big puppy eyes, but they’d not expected the police to be back.

It sounded fair enough; after all, in the past two days Ziva, McGeek and Tony had had their hands full with keeping the site clear. Three times they’d had to drive all the way up to the field outside of town because some wannabe-ghostbusters wanted to catch their own personal Slimmer. McGee had asked the town people to let the NCIS team know if they saw more potential ghost hunters going up to the site, and the citizens—probably eager to help and find the murderer of four men at least—followed that request willingly.

Tony didn’t believe in ghosts, and frankly, he could have done without having to go up to the crime scene over and over again because some idiots had watched _The Blair Witch Project_ one too many times, or had decided they wanted to be just like those losers who ran the Hell Hound website. Usually, those nerds came equipped with tiny meters that cackled and buzzed, or other wired boxes that looked like a control or a toy car but was used, as one girl had told Tony proudly, to detect cold spots. Because apparently that was what spirits caused—cold spots. Whatever.

None of these geeks, however, had appeared on the site with a sawn-off shotgun. The shorter one had claimed it was only filled with rock salt to repel ghosts, but Tony had decided to bring them in for interrogation anyway. You never knew. Maybe they’d find out something interesting.

Besides, there was something suspicious about the guys. He couldn’t quite point his finger on it, but something told him that this wasn’t the first time they’d had a run-in with the police.

The way they’d let the arrest happen, the way it didn’t even seem to bother them as if they’d been through all that often enough to develop a routine…it didn’t seem right. Tony had a sneaking feeling in his gut. Better safe than sorry.

***

Sam wanted to roll his eyes at Dean, but figuring that the two Feds—and Sam just decided to call them Feds because NCIS? He’d never heard of that one before—were watching every move they made he decided against it. He tried to send it over mentally but Dean remained unimpressed, staring out of the window, slouched in the seat.

Oh, this was just going great. They’d just escaped one prison to be sent to another. Wonderful. Why the hell had he listened to Dean anyway? _The murder happened two days ago, Sam, and the crime scene is in the middle of nowhere. No need to sneak in there at night. No one will see us._

Yeah, right.

He shouldn’t have agreed to that, it’d been flat stupid and being caught by the Feds, they almost deserved that. But Dean had been so shook up after the whole deal with the djinn, like a walking shell, that Sam found it very hard to refuse Dean’s requests. Besides, they really hadn’t expected someone to show up.

The woman turned around to look at them. Her eyes were sharp as if they didn’t miss a thing that was happening around her. Sam shifted in his seat, and tried not to stare back. Knowing that her eyes were on him made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. She didn’t seem like a regular cop, and she had an accent he couldn’t place. The other guy had addressed her as “Ziva,” but that name didn’t mean anything to Sam either. He was pretty sure that she was more dangerous than she looked, and Dean seemed to sense that, too.

The guy, on the other hand—Sam didn’t know what to make of him, for now anyways. Sam saw him smile at some of Dean’s comments, though, so at least he had some sense of humour. Or Dean’s humour, anyway.

Sam turned his head to look at Dean, who like on cue averted his eyes from the window to look at Sam. There was a brief moment of silence, before Dean blinked. Twice. Then frowned, and blinked again. Sam’s lips twitched to a smile. He’d understood.

A while ago, during three particular slow weeks—no freak accidents or obscure murders as far as they could tell anyway—they had developed a form of communication based on blinking, frowning and twitching one’s lips. Actually, it’d been Dean who proposed it, saying that if they ever got caught by the cops again, that way they could talk without actually talking in front of the police. Get their stories in synch and make sure they were both on the same page. As it turned out, they’d come in need of those skills much sooner than anticipated.

They had four different stories prepared, and the two-blink-frown-blink meant that they were going for the ghost-hunters one. With the usual back story. They’d heard about the local legend and after the murder, had decided to go hunting for ghosts. They were taking a year off, visiting haunted sites all over the States to collect material for a book.

Their ideas said they were brothers from Bristol, Illinois. Luke and Bill Kelly. Their mother had passed away from cancer; their dad had taken off when they were kids and left their mom on her own. They didn’t have any other relatives.

Dean—Bill—had worked as a mechanic, while Sam—Luke—had worked day jobs to save up for a year in Europe. In the end, he’d figured that a book deal would help him get the money, and Bill had agreed to help him. Anything to get his brother out of the house for a year.

Remembering the stuff wasn’t the tricky part, agreeing on the most credible story often proved to be much harder. Luckily, this time the pick was pretty obvious. Sam hoped that it would do. He didn’t trust that Ziva.

***

Something was off with the two ghostbuster guys, and she wondered whether Tony had noticed it too. She never knew with Tony. He surprised her all the time, so it was possible he was just pretending that he’d not, in fact, noticed it.

They’d chased away and questioned more self-proclaimed ghost hunters than ever before, but those two guys—brothers, and Ziva believed that part—they were different.

Sure, they carried basically the same equipment, except for that the other hunters hadn’t carried a shotgun. No matter whether it was filled with salt ort not. Their stories didn’t differ much, all of these nosy people either wanted to see a ghost or become famous for having seen one. However, as soon as police showed up they tended to lose all their bravado and turned into nervous little messes. One of the guys they’d picked up the day before had even suffered a full panic attack.

Except for these two. They were different.

It was in the way they carried themselves, Ziva decided. The presence of NCIS didn’t really impress them; it was more of an inconvenience that had to be dealt with. They walked upright, not bothering to argue about how they’d done nothing wrong, like they’d been through arrests often enough to know the drill.

More than that, their entire posture screamed “soldier” to Ziva. They remained calm, settled, like they knew exactly how to handle themselves in combat and in encounters with the enemy. They were aware of their strength and skills, and they didn’t fear the presence of uniforms, a flashing blue light and guns.

When their IDs checked out, Ziva was surprised and not surprised at the same time. She’d not expected their IDs to be legit but on the other hand, if Bill and Luke Kelly were some kind of professional assassins, they would carry around the good stuff. ID cards that would pass a standard-check. If they were as well-trained as Ziva thought they might be, they probably had even more up their sleeve.

Tony brought the brothers to a holding cell, and ordered McGee to stand guard so Bill and Luke wouldn’t exchange strategies and alibis. The police station wasn’t much more than a shoe box in the middle of nowhere, with only one holding cell, a small interrogation room that couldn’t be locked properly and a fax machine that didn’t work.

All in all, it was the worst place on earth to do an investigation in. Why couldn’t dead Marines turn up closer to Washington?

“I’m going to get Gibbs,” Tony said.

“Okay, Tony,” McGee replied. Ziva said nothing. She kept watching the two guys from the corner of her eyes, their decisive lack of nervousness nagging at her mind. This wasn’t the behaviour of some random guys at their first run-in with the police, she thought. And they were anything but geeks that wanted to be ghost hunters.

And even if their IDs had checked out, she would prove it.

She would take finger print samples from the shotgun, and she’d drive up the two hours to Washington and have Abby run them.

***

Breaking out of the interrogation room wouldn’t have been a problem, and if Sam hadn’t still been locked up in the other room, Dean would seriously have considered it. The bars at the window looked rusty and more like decoration than anything that could prevent an escape. The door creaked when being opened, and Dean was fairly sure that it would just break out its joints if he threw himself against it hard enough. He wasn’t cuffed, which was a first, and all in all pulling a Steve McQueen shouldn’t have been difficult.

But Sam was still locked up, and some part inside Dean told him to stay calm and sit this one out. Their IDs had checked out without a problem, their alibi was solid and their chances of getting out here within an hour or two weren’t too bad. Unless of course someone had been watching the FBI’s Most Wanted List closely and recognised the striking resemblance between Bill Kelly and Dean Winchester.

As the door opened, a man entered, holding a cup of coffee. When he looked at Dean, he raised his eyebrows for a moment in surprise, but the rest of his face gave away no emotion. The guy, who Dean guessed to be that Gibbs the other cop had referred to, placed the cup of coffee on the table wordlessly, then pulled back the chair and eased down on it. His hair was a mixture of grey and white, cut in a style that looked military.

Dean couldn’t say why, but he straightened up a little and squared his shoulders.

“So, you and your brother, you’re ghost hunters?” Gibbs asked, and then took a sip from his coffee.

Dean sighed inwardly. What would he have given for coffee right now…

“Yes, Sir,” Dean replied. As long as there was still the chance of getting on the good side of this cop, he was trying the polite approach. He had a feeling being a smart-ass wouldn’t impress this guy. Dean couldn’t say why, but he reminded Dean of Dad in that way. The cop looked at him, focused him with an unreadable expression and Dean knew Gibbs wasn’t going to take any crap from him. Actually, Dean was sure that Gibbs would make his life Hell if Dean tried being anything less than respectful.

“So, do you believe in ghosts?” Gibbs asked.

Dean shrugged, and figured sticking to the truth as best as he could, would be the best strategy. “Yeah, ‘course. Else I wouldn’t be trying to find one.”

“And, have you found ghosts? You and your brother?”

Dean narrowed his eyes a little, and hesitated before he answered. He couldn’t tell whether Gibbs was just mocking him or not. Maybe he was trying to prove Dean had lost his mind. He had no intention of going to a padded cell, but claiming to have seen ghosts would make his alibi for intruding a crime site more credible. Besides, he had seen ghosts.

“Some,” Dean said vaguely.

“You’re not afraid of them?”

Christ, what the fuck _was_ this? Therapy?

“They’re not all mean. Some are revengeful spirits, you’ve got to be careful with them or they’ll kick your a—or they’ll kill you.”

“And you think one of them killed the dead Marine?”

Oh, oh. Now they were getting down to it. At least, this was more Dean’s territory, the part of interrogations he was familiar with. He could handle himself here, with a bit of luck. As long as nobody ran his fingerprints, he should be okay. Dean reminded himself to be careful, reminded him not to answer too rash. _Think before you talk, and you’ll be out of here in no time._

“Well, it’s not my place to say…” Dean replied slowly.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“The myth says a girl was strangled up there and now she kills men.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question.”

At this point Dean considered his escape plan again. Maybe he could come back for Sam later…

His feet itched, and heat spread up his back, and all he wanted was to get out. This interrogation was getting more and more out of control. This wasn’t how you questioned a suspected murderer. Maybe Dean should suggest it to Gibbs. Dean preferred being treated as a murderer over being treated as a pathetic lunatic. He definitely knew he wasn’t a murderer.

“I’m waiting,” Gibbs said. His voice was calm, but Dean heard the underlying threat. He wondered if it had the same effect on Gibbs’ team.

Finally, figuring that he had nothing to lose by admitting, Dean nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“Why do you think that?”

Okay, if Gibbs wanted proof, Dean could show him proof. He cleared his throat.

“In 1952, a little girl named Susan Dylan disappeared and was found dead a week later on the very same spot where your Marine was murdered. She’d been strangled, but her killer was never found. Ever since then, murders have happened on the same site. In the last fifty-four years, nine men have been found strangled up there but there was never any clear evidence on who could have done it and why. The last murder happened two days ago. Victim was a Petty Officer Matthew Kingston. Same deal—he was strangled, and there was absolutely no evidence, just an urban legend about the spirit of a little girl who likes to go out and kill.

See, spirits aren’t very bright. They act on instinct and they have a very clear MO. In her case, it’s probably just taking revenge on all men she encounters.”

Dean leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, and stared at Gibbs, watching him closely for any kind of reaction. He expected a raised eyebrow, a frown, possibly even an outburst of the “Are you kidding me? You think this is funny?” variety.

Nothing happened. Gibbs looked up, straight into Dean’s eyes, with a thoughtful expression that Dean could make no sense of. He was used to being insulted, called a bastard and pervert, a nutcase and an ass-hole. The silent treatment, as if Gibbs was actually considering Dean’s words—that was something entirely new.

“You sure know a lot about it,” Gibbs finally offered.

“It’s our job,” Dean replied, then added quickly, “If we want to put that book together, we need all the background information.”

“I see. Care to tell me why you carried a shotgun with you? I supposed you didn’t want to shoot a ghost?”

“The gun’s filled with rock salt. Check it, if you want. Salt repels spirits.”

“So you don’t think the Marine was murdered by a human?”

Inwardly, Dean rolled his eyes. Where was this headed? Why would Gibbs give a crap about what he thought? Why didn’t he press him for an alibi, why didn’t he try to prove that maybe the Kelly brothers were so desperately after a book deal they’d murdered someone to underline their theory?

It’s what Dean would have done, had he been an NCIS agent.

“Why do you care?” Dean asked.

Gibbs didn’t reply. Just looked at Dean like he didn’t know whether or not to believe him. Dean’s stomach did a somersault. Somehow, this was not going well.

***

 _He’d heard the woman scream and instinctively ran down the alley. Dark and narrow, it wrapped itself around the back of the bar. Perfect spot to rape a woman or kill some innocent homeless person, if there was such a thing as a good spot for rape or murder._

 _The alley was squeezed in between the backs of two houses with empty windows staring down at Gibbs as he continued to run, then stopped when it took a sudden right. There, on the ground, a woman was kneeling and crying in sobs that began ebbing away. Another woman knelt beside her, her long red hair shining like fire in the dim moonlight. Her face was turned to the other woman’s throat, as if she was caressing it._

 _For a moment, Gibbs was too stunned to do anything. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d stumbled into, but it looked like a re-enactment of a sad vampire film he’d seen on the television a week before. He was hesitant to intrude because it seemed to be such an intimate moment, but the woman wouldn’t stop crying, and somehow, it just all didn’t fit together._

 _Just when he’d made the decision to step in, the crying woman looked up and saw him. She had black hair down to her chin, framing an incredibly pale face._

 _“Help,” she croaked feebly._

 _At her words, the redhead turned around. She grinned, and licked her lips._

 _A split-second later, she was at Gibbs’ throat._

 _The strength surprised him, the feral force that swamped him as she dug her hand in his hair and pulled his head to the side, exposing his neck. He thought he heard her snarl. He tried to push her away, but couldn’t remember a single hand-to-hand combat trick he’d learned in the Marine Corps. It was all gone, his mind void of coherent thought. Then, something sharp pierced into his neck._

 _He didn’t have time to think and even if he would have had, he wouldn’t have considered that maybe there were such things as vampires, and that she was sucking his blood. A deep male voice boomed behind him; it sounded angry. Daring._

 _She turned around, and Gibbs got a glimpse of a man standing a few feet away from them, holding a machete. In the shadows, he looked like an avenger taken right out of some B-horror movie._

 _He spoke again but Gibbs couldn’t make sense of the words; blood rushed through his ears and the pain in his neck was still pulsating, if ebbing away a little. She snarled again and then, faster than anything Gibbs had ever seen, she jumped at the man._

 _A hiss cut through the air, and the woman’s head fell from her shoulders like an oversized bouncing ball. Her body sacked to the floor, and Gibbs stood panting, his right hand pressed against the pain on his neck._

 _“Are you okay?” the man asked._

 _Gibbs didn’t reply, just stared. He took a step closer and as he did, caught a quick glimpse of the man’s face. A man who, as far as Gibbs was concerned, had just beheaded a woman. He was a murderer, and belonged in jail. His mind processed these thoughts slowly, but was too dazed to do anything about it. Gibbs blinked for just a second, but when he opened his eyes, the killer was gone._

 _But Gibbs had seen his face. It was enough. He’d find the man._

***

Sam had waited for twenty minutes and if had to sit through another twenty—all on his own with one agent posted to guard the cell and that Tony guy standing a few feet down the hall guarding the interrogation room—he’d probably hurt someone. The conversations between the guy who Tony referred to as “McGeek” or “Probie” and Tony were nerve-wracking enough to make a die-hard pacifist reconsider his priorities.

“Probie” seemed a nice-enough guy, calm and focused on his job. He wouldn’t have minded just watching the cell in quiet, but Tony was bored—Sam heard it in his voice, he knew the tone from Dean—and set on making Probie’s life hell. Even when Probie acted like he wasn’t even listening, Tony wouldn’t stop. He chattered about movies and women, what women liked and how Probie probably didn’t know because women didn’t date geeks, about how Probie’s photo on the inside cover of his new book made him look fat. Probie handled the onslaught of stupidity with astounding patience and only dignified Tony’s comments with a reply every now and then.

“Hey McGeek, doesn’t it get uncomfortable taking a computer to bed with you every night?” Tony yelled down the hall. Sam couldn’t see his face, but he could imagine Tony’s smug face just fine.

Probie didn’t reply, just sighed quietly. Sam wanted to tell him that he could relate; that he had a brother who was just like Tony and that it wasn’t all so bad, in the end. He never told Probie though. Quality-bonding time between prisoners and federal agents only happened on cheesy television shows. Besides, Probie probably already knew.

Sam ran a hand through his hair and pinched the bridge of his nose. He just hoped Dean was doing okay, that this Gibbs bought Dean’s story. After all, they had just escaped from jail, and Sam had no intention of going back soon. Or ever. They’d always managed just fine making up stories that justified trespassing, or carrying weapons on encounters with the police. But now Henricksen was on his personal crusade against the Winchesters, and they just couldn’t afford run-ins with the cops anymore.

Yes, he really hoped Dean was doing okay.

***

Abby was bored out of her mind with the whole team being in the boonies, so she welcomed Ziva and the assignment she brought. When Ziva entered the lab, Abby was busy building the world’s biggest Caf-Pow paper cup tower. The music was playing loudly in notes that Ziva’s ears had never before heard, and Bert was watching Abby doing her work from one of the chairs.

“Abby?” Ziva asked, and Abby jumped to her feet, which—on five inch heels made her stumble—and the tower crashed with a thunder. Abby ducked, hands over her head and wincing every time another cup touched the floor. When the last cup had fallen and come to a still, she looked up and gave Ziva a wide smile.

“Ziva!” Dodging the cups, she pulled the other woman into a hug. Ziva stiffened for a moment, before she submitted to the embrace. “How’s everybody doing? Is Tony okay? Has Tim killed him yet? How’s Gibbs? Do you have any leads yet?”

“Everybody’s fine,” Ziva laughed as Abby released her from the hug. “At least Tony was still alive when I left him.”

“That’s good,” Abby replied. She picked up some cups, and placed them on one of the desks. Her machines didn’t like the lab being untidy. They worked better under neat conditions. “So, what brings you here?”

“I need you to run some prints,” Ziva said.

“Oh, so you guys _did_ find a lead.” Abby looked at Ziva expectantly. Leads meant work. Work she could use. She wasn’t going to build that cup tower again, and she’d already redecorated the lab with new prints of gun-shot wounds.

Ziva shook her head. “Not yet. We ran into two guys at the crime scene today, and I have a feeling about them. I just…I’d like you to check if they have a criminal record, that’s all.”

“Couldn’t you just run their ID’s?” Abby asked.

“Their ID checks out but…I think they’re suspicious. I just want to make sure.”

Abby picked up some more cups. “So Gibbs doesn’t know you’re here? With the prints?”

“No,” Ziva admitted.

Abby nodded slowly. At least Ziva had learned early on that the best way to get on Abby’s good side was honesty. Flat-out honesty.

“I don’t like going behind Gibbs’ back,” Abby said. She raised her brow at Ziva doubtfully, her pigtails framing her face. As much as she welcomed work, she welcomed Gibbs knowing about it even more.

“”If the guys turn out to be psychopaths,” Ziva offered, “we will tell Gibbs immediately. There’s no harm in just checking, right?”

For a moment, Abby didn’t reply. She bit her lip, and turned her face to the window, creasing her brows. There really wasn’t any harm in checking…was there?

She spun around. “All right. Where are the prints?”

***

 

 _The motel was quiet, but that didn’t have to mean anything. True, most people were asleep at this time of the night, but dead people made no sounds either. Gibbs zipped his black jacket up and closed his hand around the gun in his waistband, before he began to cross the parking lot towards room number seven; the one with the huge old Chevrolet parked outside._

 _It had taken Gibbs a full day to find out where the man was hiding, he was really good at covering his tracks and even now, Gibbs didn’t have any idea what his name was, or where he came from. Nobody knew anything about him, but asking around in several shady bars had lead Gibbs to the run-down motel at the outskirts of town. He’d been on a stake-out since the early evening, and about an hour ago, the man had returned to his lair. Carrying a duffle bag and with a slight limp he’d climbed out of the Chevy and vanished inside the room. He hadn’t switched the light on, and nothing had moved since then._

 _Chances were he’d gone straight to bed. At least Gibbs hoped he had._

 _There was no back-up; nobody even knew that he was hunting down a potential murderer. He wanted proof before he would file an official charge. He knew what he’d seen, the beheading, but at the same time, his statement wasn’t very reliable. What would he have said? That he’d been attacked by a vampire, before a self-proclaimed van Helsing had stepped in? He’d had two or three beers at the time, and that didn’t make him very credible. Especially since no body had been found._

 _His cell had run out of batteries, and he’d gone back into the bar asking for a pay phone to report a murder. Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned the murder thing, but he’d been so out of it…_

 _“A murder?” the bartender had asked, and run out to fill his curiosity. Gibbs remembered cursing and following the guy to keep him from touching the body. Only by the time they stepped outside, the body was gone. No evidence left._

 _But he’d get the needed evidence to send the killer behind bars. Gibbs was dead set on that._

 _He snuck over to the motel unseen, and stood by the door for a moment, close to the wall. It was dark, pitch black, everyone was asleep and he doubted that anyone had seen him. Still, couldn’t be too careful._

 _He pulled a lock pick from his pocket and crouched before the door, shoving it back and forth in the key hole until the lock switched with a quiet clicking sound. Gibbs put the lock pick away, and pulled the gun from his waist band, releasing the safety._

 _He took a deep breath and nudged the door open gently, just wide enough he could squeeze through. Then he stepped in._

 _Inside was even darker than outside, and for a moment Gibbs felt like he’d stepped into a black hole. He stopped to give his eyes the chance to get used to the light, when a thud cut into the stillness. Gibbs whipped around, gun pointing into the direction that the sound had come from._

 _Now that his sight had adjusted to the lack of light, he saw the man he’d been looking for—the one that had beheaded a woman in cold blood—with a baseball bat in his hands._

 _Not quite according to plan._

 _At least Gibbs was in the advantage, and the man seemed to realise that too._

 _“Please don’t shoot.” The man kept his voice low. For a psychopathic murderer, he sounded positively afraid. And not so much afraid for his own life. There was a pleading undertone in his voice that didn’t fit the deep baritone, and the man’s gaze flickered nervously from Gibbs to a spot on the wall to Gibbs’ right._

 _There was a door, left ajar. A bedroom._

 _“Who do you got in there?” Gibbs asked._

 _As if to prove that he was willing to cooperate as long as Gibbs wouldn’t pull the trigger, the man put the bat down and said again, “Please, just don’t shoot.”_

 _“Who is in there?”_

 _“No one.”_

 _Gibbs huffed; that guy was a bad liar. He took two steps back, towards the door, and even in the dark saw the psychopathic murderer pale._

 _“You’re looking for me, aren’t you?”_

 _“Nice try,” Gibbs replied. He reached for the knob. He expected a slaughtered woman, a blood bath, a hostage tied to the bed. Something that fitted the image of a serial killer._

 _He was not prepared to see two little boys, sharing a bed, lost in comforters and cushions. The slightly bigger and probably older one of the two had blonde, floppy hair and the smaller boy—with the weirdest mop of brown hair Gibbs had ever seen—was snuggled against the other kid, a stuffed toy in his arms._

 _Instinctively, Gibbs lowered the gun. He shouldn’t have, realising that if he had wanted to, the guy could have jumped him that moment. But the man hadn’t. He stood next to Gibbs in the door frame, and his main worry seemed to be not to wake the children. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t tried to fight; he’d not wanted to disturb them._

 _“Who are they?” Gibbs asked. He too kept his voice low now. There wasn’t any need to wake the kids._

 _“They’re my sons,” the man replied slowly. “Just…give me a chance to explain. If you still want to arrest me or kill me afterwards—fine. But listen to me first.”_

 _Gibbs never found out why he agreed to that, it wasn’t his way to talk with murderers. Maybe it was because everything seemed upside down, like patched together wrong, and Gibbs was willing to hear an explanation that would make it have sense at least. Maybe it was because the guy was a dad, and somehow the image of the boys sleeping safely in their father’s presence had weakened him. Or maybe it was because the fact that the potential killer’s main worry was that his kids would not wake to gun fire that touched a part of his heart._

 _So Gibbs agreed to listen. And he learned._

***

When they brought back Dean and came to get Sam for the interrogation, they didn’t have time to talk. But as Dean passed Sam by in the hallway, he wrinkled his nose briefly. It was one of the weird additional signs Dean had come up with on a stake-out, and it meant, “Something’s not right.” There was no extra sign for “Be careful, Sammy.” There didn’t have to be. It was included to everything Dean said or did anyway.

Sam’s stomach twisted when he entered the interrogation room, and it stayed that way all through the agent’s questions. Under different circumstances, he probably would have taken a liking to Gibbs. He seemed smart and kind in a way, someone Sam would have liked to talk to. As it were, he was in a room where everything he said was recorded on tape, and he had to watch his steps.

That turned out harder than anticipated when Gibbs began to ask unusual questions—about ghosts and hunting them and whether he truly thought there were ghosts.

“Yeah,” Sam replied slowly. “I guess.”

“Your brother says he believes in ghosts.”

He could see now why Dean had warned him. It was like walking a high wire.

“He does.”

“So you drive cross-country to find them.”

“For the book,” Sam said flatly. Usually, he handled himself better in situations like these. He gave himself a mental head slap.

“And you carry the shotgun because…?”

“It’s only filled with salt. Salt repels ghosts. We carry it around in case the spirits attack.”

There were a couple more questions after that, questions that felt like Gibbs was telepathic or something with some narrow hits close to home. When Gibbs rose from his chair, and told him that they were done for now, Sam’s legs were rubber.

Shit. Last time he’d felt like that, he’d been twelve and accidentally ruined one of Bobby’s tool boxes.

As Sam turned to step out of the room, Gibbs brushed him by and as he did, wordlessly slipped a tiny yellow piece of paper into Sam’s hand.

***

Dean thought that it was about high time he tried the film reference again. Maybe someone would get it at some point and besides, he was tired of sitting around in this cell without saying a word. He liked to talk, especially when things got weird or nasty. It distracted him, and right now he needed distraction from the fact that Gibbs was interrogating Sam at this very moment.

That Gibbs guy had a weird way of questioning a suspect, and Dean just couldn’t figure out what his intentions had been. Maybe he’d tricked Dean into confessing something, into telling something and Dean still didn’t know.

Sam was smart, he could hold his own. Still, Dean was worried. He didn’t trust that Gibbs-guy, even less than he trusted other cops. Maybe he was already planning on locking them away in a mental ward for good because Dean had claimed that ghosts existed.

“I wish I had a baseball,” Dean said quietly, because he had nothing else to do.

“You’d need a baseball glove first. Besides, this isn’t exactly the cooler.”

Dean looked up on hearing Tony’s voice, and frowned. Oh. So there was somebody who knew movies. Or at least the important ones.

“With a little redecorating…” Dean ended the sentence on a smirk.

“Yeah, but don’t expect a motorcycle to be parked outside waiting for your escape attempt.”

“I have my car.

“Sorry, but unless you drive a classic…”

“I do.”

Tony’s eyebrows shot upward.

“Really.”

Dean shrugged. “Believe me or don’t, I still drive one.”

“What brand? Make?” Tony crossed his arms over his chest. He seemed intrigued.

“Just sayin’, it’s a kick-ass car and has been for over forty years.” Dean paused, then added, “It’s a real chick magnet, too. Women dig the car. Can’t blame them for having taste.”

No need to give the specifics. It’d be better if the Impala flew under the radar.

Tony, who Dean began to like more and more—how often did you meet cops who appreciated old films and even older cars after all—nodded in agreement.

Tony cleared his throat. “So, Luke’s your brother, hm?”

Dean almost, _almost_ , asked who the Hell Luke was, until he remembered that Luke was Sam’s name on the fake ID.

“You got any siblings?” Dean asked, not bothering to answer the question. Their IDs said they were brothers after all.

“No.” Tony actually sounded a bit disappointed. Then, with a nod towards the other cop, Tony said, “Got Probie here, though. If having a younger annoying brother is anything like dealing with him, I offer you my consolations.”

Dean smiled. “Thanks. Luke’s not so bad though. A geek if you’ve ever seen one, but he’s a good kid.”

“Yeah,” Tony replied, lips twitching to a half-smile. “Know the feeling.”

The door to the interrogation room opened, and out stepped Gibbs and Sam. Sam had his hands shoved in the pockets of his pants, and smiled briefly when his eyes met Dean’s.

“Release them,” Gibbs said. “They’re just ghost hunters.”

***

It took a little while until the data bank found a matching print. Ziva had hoped that her gut had been wrong, that red letters would flicker up on the screen telling her that no match had been found. But when the letters appeared on screen, they were green, and confirming Ziva’s fears.

“Wow,” Abby said when she opened the requested criminal files. “That record is impressive.”

Ziva stepped closer and there he was, Bill Kelly whose real name was Dean Winchester. And unlike his alter ego, Dean Winchester was a psychopathic serial killer who mutilated corpses and dug up graves for fun. Ziva’s stomach dropped three stories. With a mouse click, Abby brought a related file on screen, and Luke Kelly—Sam Winchester—appeared. At least they were really brothers, but Ziva wasn’t sure whether that made things better or worse. Brothers, both psychopaths? The skin on her neck crawled up.

“We need to tell Gibbs,” Ziva said. She only realised now that they were holding two felons from the top of the FBI’s Most Wanted List in a shabby, run-down police station in the middle of nowhere. From there, escape would be easy for professionals like Dean and Sam Winchester.

Abby nodded. “Yeah. Hurry.”

Ziva pulled out her cell phone and dialled Gibbs’ number. The phone rang, loud and clear and long, but nobody picked up. Gibbs usually always picked up. Ziva, now officially getting nervous, dialled again.

***

His cell rang about five minutes after they’d released the Ghostbuster freaks. Tony reached for his phone with a sigh—work never stopped—and raised his brows when he saw that the caller ID read Ziva’s name.

“Yeah?”

“Tony? Why won’t Gibbs answer his phone?” Ziva sounded urgent. But then, she always sounded urgent.

“I’m fine, thanks, how’re you?” Tony said. There was a basket of muffins at the front desk of the police station. Maybe he could snag one.

“I’ve been trying to call Gibbs, but he won’t answer his phone.” Ziva pressed.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Gibbs always answers his phone.”

“He didn’t this time. Is he all right?”

“He’s fine—why wouldn’t he be?”

“Tony, I ran the brothers’ finger prints,” Ziva said. “And—”

“Wait, without Gibbs knowing about it?” Gibbs would be pissed.

“Yes. Now listen. Their IDs were false. Their real names are Dean and Sam Winchester and they have a few bodies in their basement…”

“You mean skeletons in their closet.” Tony smiled. Ziva getting idioms wrong counted among the high lights of his day. He thought it was too charming for her own good, but he’d be damned if he told her.

“It does not matter. They’re mass-murderers. They’re psychopaths. They’re on the FBI’s most wanted list. They’re wanted for murder, holding hostages, mutilating corpses and more.”

Okay, now he got her urgent tone.

“They what?”

“Go tell Gibbs,” Ziva said. “Quick.”

She didn’t have to tell him twice. He snapped the cell phone shut and ran.

He found Gibbs in the café on the other side of the road, drinking coffee. Tony leaped in panting, and half bent over Gibbs’ table needed a moment to catch his breath before he could speak.

“Gibbs, Ziva’s been trying to call you, but you didn’t answer your phone.”

“I must have left it in my car,” Gibbs replied.

Tony, still panting, raised his eyebrow—when did Gibbs ever leave his phone somewhere? Still, he needed to fill Gibbs in on the new right now, while the guys were still near enough they could catch them if they got into their cars and…

“The guys that you just let go, boss—they’re felons wanted in connection with several murders and a hostage situation and…the list just doesn’t stop. Their IDs were false.”

“How do you know?”

“When Ziva couldn’t reach you, she called me. She ran their prints”

He expected some kind of reaction. An angry brow, or an angry face, and angry fist against the table top or even a head slap. But Gibbs remained oddly unmoved, not like he’d just been tricked by a bunch of serial killers.

“Oh.” Was all he said.

“Boss?” If Gibbs had a gut-feeling, so had Tony. Something was off with this whole issue, because the Gibbs Tony knew would have ordered them to grab their gear and bring the brothers in, regardless whether they wouldn’t get any sleep until the day after tomorrow.

“That must have been the finest set of false ID’s I’ve ever seen.”

“We can still catch them…”

“We still got a job to do here. When the first guys died up on that field, they were too young to have committed the murders. They hadn’t even been born yet. The way the men died are exactly identical, it can’t have been a copycat. Copycats are just that—copies. They’re never quite like the original. My gut tells me they didn’t kill the Marine. We still have a killer to find, and he’s bound to be here somewhere. If we chase after those brothers, the trail might get cold for good.” Gibbs said after a moment. “But I will call the Feds and tell them we accidentally arrested some of their most wanted and let them go again. The FBI will be delighted.”

Tony’s gut was still sending up messages that this didn’t feel right, but he told it to shut up. Gibbs knew what he was doing. Even if Tony couldn’t always see the method to the madness, he was willing to trust Gibbs on this one.

***

“This is not a good idea,” Dean protested.

Sam, being completely himself, huffed. “If the guy wanted us in jail or dead, he could have had that a much easier way.”

“Excuse me if my trust in cops is a little dented after that one guy tried to execute me to blame his murders on me.”

“I’ve checked the place on google maps. It’s an open field. No place for an ambush. If there are any cops, we’ll see them.”

Dean rolled his eyes, and turned the car around. “Okay fine, but if we end up in jail, I’m going to kill you.”

“Deal.”

Sam had showed the note to Dean once they were out of the police station and inside the car and on the road. It read a time and coordinates written in a hurried hand. The coordinates were what had them debating in the first place. Sam was inclined to trust the cop—after all coordinates were the way Dad had operated—while Dean believed in tricks and falsehoods above all things and just wanted to beat it. Screw that cop and his coordinates, and try to lay low for a while.

The time was 2:00 in the morning, and when they reached the meeting point, another car was already waiting. As the Impala drew closer, a door opened and Gibbs appeared. He remained by the car, leaning against the hood, a paper cup with coffee in his hand.

They parked at a distance, and Gibbs started walking over to them slowly. His steps were steady and determined.

“Now what do we do?” Dean asked.

Instead of replying, Sam pushed the door to the Impala open. It creaked, cutting into the night. Sam climbed out and that was that—no way in hell Dean would let Sam encounter that cop on his own. Dean sighed, and followed his brother.

“Glad you made it,” Gibbs greeted them. There was a twinkle in his eyes, something that made him look like he’d just played a prank on the Winchesters and was amused it had worked.

“Why are you here?” A cool wind brushed the top of Dean’s head and ruffled his hair. There was no point in wasting time. He just wanted Gibbs to say what he had to say, and get out of here.

When Gibbs looked at him a moment before he answered, it felt so much like talking to Dad that Dean straightened, raised his chin and squared his shoulders.

“To tell you that I had to call the Feds after your cover blew. One of my agents didn’t buy your story, and she did some research.”

Dean’s gut twisted.

“You didn’t know that when you gave me the note, though.” Sam made a step forward, and Gibbs turned to him.

He shook his head. “No. I wanted to meet you anyway. To tell you that as long as my agents are investigating the case, you should lie low. And now the FBI will be here soon, too. I know that with the Feds in town, a visit to the graveyard might not be such a good idea for a while. You’ll have to come back some time to do your job. I’ll have a fence put around that site somehow and make trespassing illegal, so the field should be safe. Until someone’s stupid enough to enter it anyway, at least.”

Dean and Sam exchanged a brief, confused glance.

Sam spoke first, “So—you believe us?”

“I had to interrogate the two of you for appearance sake. It gave me enough reason to regard you as harmless and let you go.”

“But…why?”

Dean nodded, supporting Sam’s question

Gibbs smiled. “You’re John’s boys. Your father saved my life once. I’ve known about hunters and what you do ever since. I don’t encounter hunters very often, but when I do I try to help when I can. Not always easy.”

“Oh,” Dean said. He stared at Sam for a moment, and then focused back on Gibbs.

“Haven’t heard from him in a while,” Gibbs said. The question behind the words remained unspoken, but it demanded an answer nonetheless.

When Dean couldn’t reply because suddenly his tongue seemed fill his entire mouth, Sam did.

“He was killed. About a year ago.”

Gibbs nodded, and averted his eyes for a second, glancing into the night.

“He was a good man.”

“Yeah.” Dean tried to swallow past the lump in his throat, but it didn’t quite work.

“He was very proud of you. I can see why.”

“Thanks,” Sam replied.

They all fell silent, until Gibbs said, “You’d better hit the road now. Keep to the back roads. And take care guys—you got work to do.”

***

 _The bar smelled like smoke and cheap beer. Rock music was playing in the background but over the muffled noises and talk, Gibbs could barely hear it._

 _He’d just ordered his second beer when John came in, placed himself next to him and ordered a whiskey. He looked older than when Gibbs had last seen him, hair sprinkled with grey and eyes deeply shadowed, lines were furrowing his face. He walked slowly as if it hurt to move; maybe he’d gotten hurt on a hunt._

 _“Hey, Jethro,” he said._

 _“John,” Gibbs replied. He wanted to point out that he’d been waiting for over an hour, but spirits usually didn’t keep to schedules._

 _In the past few years, John and Gibbs had developed a routine of meeting up for a beer when John was in the area. Drinking was easier when it didn’t have to be done alone, and they’d quickly found out that they had more in common than they’d thought. They’d both been to war, they’d both been a Marine; they’d both lost their wife to a monster. They were both fighting evil as best as they could. John fought supernatural monsters and Gibbs those that came in human form._

 _“How’s Dean doing?” Gibbs asked._

 _“I sent him down to New Orleans for a hunt. He misses his brother but…he’s fine.”_

 _“Still nothing from Sam then?”_

 _John shook his head. “Not a word. Maybe it’s for the better.”_

 _Clearing his throat, John shoved his hand in the pocket of his jacket, fumbling for something, before he pulled out two photos and slid them towards Gibbs._

 _“Listen, Jethro…I might not always be around to look after them. Or to get them out of trouble. I have—these are current photos of them. Well, Sam’s photo is two years old but I don’t think he’s changed that much. If you—if you ever run into them: please look out for them, will you? And no matter what you might hear—they’re good kids. Really, they are. Bein’ a hunter is a thankless job, and sometimes hunters get hit in the crossfire when it’s not their fault. Whatever they do, whatever their files might say—they have a reason for what they do. If you ever meet them, ask questions first. Listen closely. Then decide whether what you read about them is true. You know what’s out there, Jethro.”_

 _Gibbs frowned. “What’s going on, John? Why are you telling me this?”_

 _“Just in case, Jethro. Just in case.” He paused, before he continued. “So, can I count on you? Will you do me that favour?”_

 _Gibbs looked down at the photos, and saw the faces of two young men he’d last seen as little boys, sharing a bed with their dad standing next to Gibbs, begging him not to wake the kids. He knew what it was like to lose a child, how horrible. And if he could help John to take care of his sons, so that John wouldn’t have to go through what Gibbs had to go through, then he would do it._

 _“Yes,” Gibbs replied. “I will.”_

-end-


End file.
